


Belong

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18771031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: Set at the end of 9.03 ("I'm No Angel"), Castiel is told he can't stay at the Bunker, and she's there to support him in the jarring transition from angel to human.





	Belong

“Please don’t leave,” she addresses the former angel’s slumped shoulders.

Castiel stills his feet to accommodate her wish.

Her focus shifts to the man who just kicked their best friend out of the Bunker moments after getting him back. Her mind roars in confusion and anger. 

Dean’s guilt reads easily on his face, but his mouth stays closed, offering no explanation.

She wants to demand the answers to a dozen questions, but only a single generic one leaves her lips. “Why?”

“It’s not safe for him here,” Dean announces, his tone soft, but sturdy. He wishes more than anything he could  _ tell  _ her. Keeping Gadreel’s possession of Sam from the ones he loves is already eating him alive.

She attempts to reason with Dean. “So, the place isn’t warded against angels yet. That’s an easy fix.”

Dean takes in a long breath. “It’s not that simple.”

She cocks her head slightly, waiting for more, to hear the complications.

Dean’s eyes are nearly pleading as the silence spans between the two of them.

“Fine,” she delivers calmly, ending the conversation. She descends the few steps down to the map room. Castiel is awkwardly standing by the large table, despite all of the seats being vacant. “Cass, give me ten minutes, and I’ll go with you.”

“What?” She hears the panic rise in Dean’s voice behind her, but she ignores him.

“You will?” Castiel’s disbelief is nearly shadowed by the new hope that he doesn’t have to try and go it alone. Again.

“Yeah.” She squeezes his hand and offers him a kind smile before retreating to the corridor of bedrooms.

 

***

 

She’s always been the type to be overprepared, and today, she’s very thankful for it. She lugs out a duffel from the back of her closet. Inside is everything she would need for an average week on the road: clothing, toiletries, a first-aid kit, a few basic weapons, and cash.

Cash. She begins to doubt the stashed five hundred bucks will be enough for both of them. She’s about to open her underwear drawer to see how much extra money she has in that old ammo box when a better idea surfaces. She digs out her phone from her jeans pocket and dials.

A cheery “Hey!” greets her on the other line.

Some of the tension in her stressed body drains away. “Jody.”

“Long time, no talk. How are you?”

She sits on her immaculately-made bed. “Uh…”

“Right,” Jody exhales. “I’ve found Hunters aren’t much of the small-talk type.”

She laughs. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

“Shoot.”

She bites her lip, realizing it’s a  _ big  _ favor. “Are you using your cabin this week?”

“No.”

“Any chance I could crash there for a little while?” She omits that she won’t be alone. A burn races up her neck as it dawns on her that Dean is not the only one keeping things to himself.  

“Honey?” Jody’s endearing caring nature is always a slam to the chest. “Is everything okay?”

She sighs. “Not the best, but not the worst.” She wonders if that’ll be a sufficient band-aid on that part of the discussion. 

Jody’s quiet for a moment. “The place is yours for as long as you need.”

The back of her throat tightens, and she wordlessly scolds herself for almost getting emotional. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” Jody adds in her Mom Voice.

“Name it.”

“When you get a chance--sooner rather than later, please--you give me a call and tell me what’s going on.”

She closes her eyes. Sam almost dying and, while strangely healed, still not being fully recovered, Dean’s uncharacteristic behavior and secrets, Castiel’s wings and grace being ripped from him, the angels falling… That’s gonna be one long chit-chat. “Deal.”

“Good,” Jody murmurs. “The key is under the potted plant on the porch. And I, uh, I’m still pretty paranoid since…”

“Crowley…”

“Yeah. So I’ve got the place well-stocked. There’s at least two weeks’ worth of canned goods and bottled water. The firewood pile’s stacked to the roof. Oh, and there may be a devil’s trap or two in ‘invisible’ paint.”

She chuckles. “Jody? You’re awesome.”

The sheriff scoffs. “That’s a nice way to look at it. Listen, that can of paint is still in the basement, and I’m sure you know a few more sigils than I do. So, if you get bored, feel free to add to the collection, even if you don’t have monsters on your ass.”

“I will,” she promises. “Thanks again, Jody.”

“Talk to you soon,” Jody reminds her of their agreement.

Having already spent five of her allotted ten minutes, she picks up the pace. She bounds into Dean’s bedroom and raids his dresser for a few days’ clothes. Castiel has nothing but those on his back, and Sam wears a larger size.

Sam.

He has no idea what’s happened in the last fifteen minutes, how everything has shifted. She doesn’t have the time to explain--hell, she doesn’t have the answers to begin with--but she can’t leave without saying goodbye. 

She finds Sam in his room, resting against the headboard while on his laptop. Even before he notices her, she can perceive how exhausted he is. 

His face lights up at her presence, and her heart halts. He’s gonna make this harder than it already is. 

“How you feeling?” she inquires. 

“Honestly?” Sam smooths the back of his hair before responding. “Pretty crappy.”

Her legs weaken, and she leans against the doorframe for support.  _ Why? _ Why couldn’t she and Cass stay here so she could take care of all of her boys at once? It’d be much easier. Sounds counterintuitive, but it’s true. 

She pulls in a steadying breath. “I’m sorry.” She slings her bag off her shoulder and drops it onto the floor as she approaches Sam’s mattress. 

“Where are you going?” Sam’s eyes flit from hers to the duffel.

“I’m, uh, heading out with Cass for a while.”

“With Cass? Why? Do you have a lead on the angels?” He closes his computer and tosses his legs over the side of the bed. “Because we should all be there to back you up.”

She raises her hand to stop him from standing. “No, no, it’s not that.”

Sam’s silence begs for more information, but her tank is nearly empty.

“I’m just gonna try to get him on his feet. Help him figure out this human thing.” She flashes Sam a small smile, but he’s not convinced. 

“Why can’t you do that here?” He waits a beat before tacking on, “With us?”

She swallows, hating herself for what she’s about to say. “Because I can’t.”

Sam shakes his head slightly, trying to process her utter lack of transparency. It’s unlike her. It’s like…  _ Dean _ . 

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, and drags her hand gently down Sam’s arm. Sorry for leaving him when he’s hurt. Sorry for not giving him the answers he deserves, because even though she’s completely dumbfounded by Dean’s decision, she can’t throw her friend under the bus. “I’ve gotta go.” She grabs her bag and exits to the sound of Sam calling her name.

Cass is perched on the bottom step of the Bunker’s entrance staircase. Dean is conveniently absent. 

“You ready?” She tries to keep her guilt and pain and fear buried deep, so as not to alarm Castiel.

He rises and takes in a long sweep of the Bunker before meeting her eyes. “Ready.”

 

***

 

Her and Castiel’s trip to South Dakota is a quiet one. She expects sleep to claim him, but he remains awake. And after a few attempts at conversation (on her part), his focus stays on the colorful autumnal trees as they flit by the passenger’s window. 

Less than halfway there, she begins to worry--and not just about her companion. She’d chosen to steal a rusty station wagon with a model year from before the turn of the century, thinking she was doing the owner a favor. Now, she’s afraid the beat-up box won’t last the full journey to the cabin. She leans into the accelerator a little more, speeding further over the posted limit.

With her lead foot and determination, the two of them make it to their new haven.

Cass quickly abandons the car. She watches him as he strolls to the middle of the yard and lifts his chin to the purple sky. The last few streaks of the day’s sunlight illuminate his face. He appears… angelic. Her chest seizes at the irony. 

She walks to the front steps. “You gonna join me anytime soon?” she jokes.

Those electric blue eyes land on her. “The fresh air is especially pleasant after being confined to that vehicle.” He realizes he may have insulted her, considering she was in the station wagon, too. His mouth twitches. “Sorry.”

She smiles in reply. “What do you say we get something to eat?”

“Yes, I… I am rather hungry,” Cass agrees.

She considers his eagerness a positive sign. 

They head inside. She dumps her bag by the front door, underneath a row of coats and next to someone’s dirty hiking boots. She goes into the kitchen. It’s a small space, but homey. Tidy. Very “Jody.” 

The accumulated rations consist mainly of soup. She grabs a can of tomato and extends it toward Castiel as he enters the room. 

“Ever had it?” she questions.

“No,” Cass admits. 

“It’s my favorite,” she proclaims.

His full lips tilt slightly upward. “Sounds good to me, then.”

“Now, to find the right dishes,” she chuckles.

Castiel locates the bowls and spoons while she discovers an appropriately-sized saucepan. He sets the table, complete with a bottle of water for each of them. She empties the can of soup into the pan, fills the then-empty vessel with water, and lets that slosh in with the pulverized tomatoes, too. Once she has the gas stove’s flame where she wants it, she waves Cass over. 

She hands him the large spoon before abandoning the soup to take a load off on one of the high-back kitchen chairs. “I drove all the way here; you can make dinner,” she jibes lightly. 

“I…” Castiel glances nervously at the pan, sure he’ll somehow mess it up--just like everything else he tries.

She squeezes her eyes shut, pissed at herself for unintentionally stressing him. “Hey.” Her soft tone soothes him immediately. “Trust me, this is an easy one. All you have to do is stir it occasionally while it heats up.”

“H-how long will that take?” 

“With a gas stove? Not long.”

He nods, but remains unsure. He gently whisks the spoon around. The sound of metal scraping metal fills the quiet air. As does the smell of their meal. Castiel inhales deeply, noting that the scent is both pleasing and teasing. His stomach grumbles. 

She strides over to the newfound chef. Observing his work, she announces, “Looks good.” She takes pride in her plan to provide him with a win. He needs a sense of victory right now. “I’d say it’s done.”

He turns his cheek toward her as she runs a hand across the middle of his back. His hunger is momentarily replaced by a different sensation in his stomach--one that, thanks to her, was familiar to him long before he was human. 

She flicks off the gas and extends pot holders to Cass. Understanding, he carefully moves the pan to the table. He ladles out a bowl for her before fixing one for himself. 

She lets him have the first slurp. Raising her eyebrows, she wonders aloud, “So?”

Castiel savors the flavor and warmth of the spoonful. “It’s delightful.”

She beams.

 

***

 

After cleaning up the few dishes from dinner--she washed; Cass dried--they begin their last mission of the night: angel-proofing. With the help of a couple of flashlights found in a junk drawer, she and Castiel fashion the invisible paint into various sigils on every exterior window and door. 

While finishing the details of her final symbol, a wolf howls from deep in the woods. If only its hungry jaws were the biggest threat to her and Cass out here… 

Once they’re satisfied with their art project, they go indoors.

Holding the can of paint and rags, Castiel reaches for the brush in her hand. “I’ll take these back.” 

“Thanks,” she exhales tiredly. 

While Cass is in the basement, she quickly exchanges her jeans and sweater for PJs.

He’s ascending the creaky stairs when she calls to him. “I have something for you.”

He sees the fabric gathered in her arms. Black flannel pajama bottoms and a gray henley. “Dean’s?”

“ _ Yours _ , for tonight,” she assures him. 

She catches his nearly-imperceptible frown of sorrow while accepting his best friend’s clothing. He gazes down at the wrinkling ensemble he’d swiped from the laundromat, feeling both pleased and guilty to have a fresh change of clothes.

After switching outfits in the bathroom, he heads to the living room. 

She’s crouched by the fireplace, poking at a stubborn log. When she glances up at him, the flames instantly ignite with a light whoosh. She expects Cass to seem out-of-place in Dean’s attire. He’s without any extra layers. His shirt appears molded to the angular frames of his muscular torso. His bare toes peek out from the flood of flannel fabric and dig into the shag area rug. But he’s still her Cass. 

Her unwavering stare leaves him unsettled, but he realizes he also doesn’t want her to look away. “What?”

“N-nothing,” she stumbles. “It’s just…” She gestures to his PJs. “...Suits you.” It’s difficult to tell in the low light, but she senses a blush rising to his cheeks. 

Attempting to hide his body’s response to her comment, he walks over to the couch. She follows his lead. Moving a pillow from the far cushion, she sits opposite him.

He peers into the fire, recalling being thrilled when some of the first humans figured out how to build one. A nervousness skitters through him as he considers that  _ he  _ is now the one who has to start from the ground up. 

She’s watching him, alerted by the quickening of his breathing. He buries his head in his hands, overwhelmed. 

She doesn’t hesitate to close some of the distance between them. She grasps his left wrist, gently pulling his palm from his tormented face. 

He drops both his hands between his open legs, clasping them together, trying to hold on.

But he also gazes at her. If he’s honest with himself, he can’t believe she’s here. With  _ him _ . He’s a burden, but she’s looking at him like he’s a blessing. He clamps his eyes closed as his head spins.

“You didn’t have to come with me.” His voice is tight.

“I know.” 

“Why did you?” he questions, almost incredulously.

He sees the hurt pulsate through her. It’s only for a second, but he hates himself all the more.

“How can you not know?” Her words crackle in her tense throat.

The former angel doesn’t reply.

She laces her fingers through his and brings their shared grasp to her lap. She refuses to speak until his icy eyes lock on hers. “I care about you so much.”

His expression is overrun by a humble sheepishness. He almost accepts the compliment, her  _ love _ . Then, he remembers he doesn’t deserve it. 

“But I’m useless,” he insists. “Weak.”

She’s shocked into silence.

“I’m a pariah, a target,” he continues. “Because I made the wrong choice. Again.”

She wants to cry. Instead, she turns into him. “So, you’re not perfect.” She places her free hand on his knee. His leg twitches at her unexpected-but-welcomed touch. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn’t make you inferior.”

“I am-- _ was _ \--an angel,” he tries to explain. “Perfection is expected of me.”

“Yeah, and look at what perfection gets you,” she fights to remind him of all the fallen soldiers he’s seen in recent years. Angels who were blindly working toward some infamous mission, not considering the bigger picture, and meeting an untimely death as a result. A process he’s learned from, personally. “Cass, you’re not a sheep.”

His brow furrows. “Is that to be a comfort?” 

She nods.

“My brothers and sisters want me dead. My best friends don’t want me in their home.” Castiel’s eyes begin to sting. The sensation is not pleasant. “I’m no longer an angel. I’m not truly human. I…” He cuts himself off as a tear slides down his cheek. He raises the hand not still claimed by hers and dabs at the droplet. He observes the moisture on his middle finger, both fascinated and afraid. The combination only brings forth more emotion. 

She reaches for his crumbling face, his untamed stubble scraping at her palm. Their eyes meet.

“Where do I belong?” he whispers.

She shifts so there is no longer a hint of space between their seated bodies. She slides her hand to the middle of his chest and lightly presses his sternum, instructing him to sit up against the cushion. 

He straightens out. She curls into his side. A deep-rooted need tells him to wrap his arm around her back. The position proves more comfortable, but, more importantly, he simply gets to hold her. 

She rests her temple on his shoulder and lays her forearm across his waist. Her grip on him is not  _ tight _ , exactly, but it’s firm.

In the glowing orange hue of the still room, she answers, “Right here.”


End file.
